Punchline

Chapter Two: One Phone Call

Chapter Two: One Phone Call

Jerome made quick work of my bleeding head, forcefully wrapping a gauze bandage around my temple with little care for my injury, though I didn't expect him to be tender. I made irritated puffs of anger, trying to conceal the pain, though he seemed to take enjoyment out of it as he grabbed my hair and moved my head unnecessarily to bring back my headache as he raveled the bandage around and around and around. He thumbed for a small metal pin, and when he clasped the end of the gauze to the rest, he pressed too hard against where the gash was and I uttered a small whimper of pain.

"Must you be so rough!?" I remarked hotly, pulling my head away from him despite his hold of my short hair.

"Look, babe," Jerome chuckled, shoving my head away from him. "I'm not the gentle type. What am I wearing, a nurse's outfit?"

He met me eye level.

"You one of them snobby types? Rich people think they're entitled. You're not a rich type, are you?"

"No."

"No, but you still act like you deserve some kind of special treatment because you're Daddy's Little princess."

I scoffed at him.

"You don't know anything about me."

"Please," he rolled his eyes. "I know a snobby, rich girl when I see one. Ain't that how you graduated from your fancy little school so fast? Three years in the academy and they got you profiling yours truly."

He grunted a noise and then smirked darkly.

He jumbled around in his pocket of his pantline to hold out my ID once again, pointing at my majored profession: "Behavioral analyst. You're trying to get in my head, huh? I don't like mind games, you know. I like playing that little stunt on other people, but I'm not up for that kind of heavy petting. Mind fucking, right?"

I glanced at his overalls where he had "borrowed" a gun strap holster; and my firearm rested cozily furthest from me.

It would be madness to try to reach for it. But I had a happy thought about shoving the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. Fuck a quick study. I wouldn't believe that I would walk out of here alive.

My wrist was falling asleep, as my hand attached to the headboard dangled uncomfortably from its angle. The handcuff itself made a reddened indention, and it was sore.

"Trying to Hannibal Lecter me, Clarice?" Jerome probed, trying to get me to answer him, to retort, to fire back anything. But I wouldn't. And I couldn't.

What would set him off? What would make him kill me in a second? I didn't know. And I was afraid of him. Truly. Others, I could understand what would anger them. With the Riddler, you could insult his intellectual vanity and you're dead. With the Penguin, you go after his family and friends and you're dead. But Jerome...I really didn't know the limits that I could take before the remaining sane spring in his head would fly off and then there go I.

"Right," Jerome cleared his throat when at last he knew that this conversation was coming to a stand still.

And then casually, "The GCPD doesn't think you're alive. So, in order for me to go forward, you gotta talk to them."

I met his eyes once more. I shifted uncomfortably under the penetration of his gaze, and despite my fear, I managed to respond.

"And," I said, "what is it you want me to say?"

"Whatever you want. They just want to hear your voice. That I haven't harmed a blonde hair on your head, that you're eating three meals hot to cot and that we're having a generous amount of time to spend together."